For Friends Displaced To The Streets, And Not

The tall percussionist stands as if that tree
planted beside the waters of quietness.

Before him, the busy violins–
thoroughbreds prancing in place,

tuning to the charge,
consuming the air cacophonous.

Only the tall, still, percussionist
can sense the harpist’s fingers,

a butterfly touching and lifting
the colored strings, a garden

tended by heart. What chance
do these two have against

the brassy blast of horns,
the cymbals’ smash?

The tall percussionist
lifts the silver triangle

above the bowed heads
intent upon their scores,

and suggests a conspiratorial
nod askance to the harpist.

They sound their note
silent as a breeze across

fields of tender grasses.
They fear no evil–

the storm at sea, proud and cruel,
sinking lone boat and fisherman.

They know reconciliation comes
in the morning, the texture of

solo violin and cello, rhythmic
joining of lyrical intent, light

spreading across the valley,
shedding the darkness.